


Suicide Hotline

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bromance, Drug Use, John/Mary off camera, No Sex, Other, S&M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is calling in to a suicide hotline claiming to be unable to stop abusing his flatmate, but who and how can it be stopped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suicide Hotline

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We do not own ANY of these characters, shows, movies, or the companies associated with them. We do not make money off these fics and will not accept offers of funds.

  
 

 

“Suicide Hotline, my name is Jenna, I’m here to listen.”

“Hi, I… do I have to tell you my name?”

“No, but everything is confidential.”

“Good, yeah, great. I, ah… well.”

“Have you been thinking of harming yourself, sir?”

“Sort of, that is… I’ve been feeling really depressed because… Well, I’ve been doing something awful to someone and I can’t seem to stop.”

“I’m not sure I understand? You aren’t suicidal?”

“Not really, no.”

“This is the suicide hotline, sir, there are people who are in serious trouble on here.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I just… I don’t know who else to call. I’m afraid I’ll hurt or even kill him and I just… I can’t _stop_.”

“You’re hurting someone?”

“Yeah. For a while now. Not every day just… he makes me so _mad_ and… I took a belt to him yesterday. I bruised him and one of the welts even bled. I felt like shite after and I cleaned him up… I’m a doctor… I just… I don’t know how to _stop_. I’m supposed to be _helping_ people, not hurting them! This isn’t me!”

“Have you or your partner talked to the police?”

“He’s not my partner- not like that. I’m not gay. Hell, it would be easier if I was, he’d probably do anything I asked him to at this point and maybe if we were… well that’s just not possible. I think I’ve brain washed him without even meaning to! He just _lets_ me! It’s… I feel _awful_ , have I mentioned that?”

“I really think you need to be talking to the police, sir, or at the very least a mental health provider. I have several numbers here if you’ll just give me your region.”

“I’ve got a therapist; she’s useless. I can’t go to the police, he works with them it’s… I’d ruin his life, you know? I can’t do that to him. He’d be humiliated.”

“Yeah, but if you’re beating him, then you’re already hurting him. You’d be doing him a favor by turning yourself in.”

“I just… I can’t. He needs me. I take care of him. You know this all started with me trying to leave? He begged me to stay, and I was so mad that I told him I would if he let me punish him. I hate myself more every damn day, but I can’t leave him because he really does _need_ me. I don’t think he’d be alive today if it weren’t for me, but what good is that if I bloody kill him myself?”

“Sir, I really need you to contact the police. You’re scaring me.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry, I just… I just needed someone anonymous to talk to. I won’t call again.”

“What’s your friends name? Or number? I’d like to check up on him.”

“Goodbye.”

 

CHAPTER 2

“Suicide Hotline, this is Jenna, I’m here to listen.”

“Hi, Jenna, we’ve spoken before. I’m the nutter who called in about hurting his friend. Do you remember?”

“You’re pretty hard to forget, sir, is your friend okay?”

“Yeah, he’s… asleep. For once. Listen, I’m… I know you’re busy. I know you’re supposed to be talking to people who are suicidal, and I’ll hang up if you insist it’s just… I mean, there’s still a life on the line, so does it really matter whose it is?”

“Are you talking about your own or your friend’s?”

“Both, I guess, because if I did kill him… I’d have no reason to go on. He’s my best mate. He’s the person I spend _every_ waking moment with. I mean, I have a girlfriend, but she’s second fiddle to him and she knows it. Don’t know why she stays with me, to be honest. I can’t be that good in bed.”

“Have you hit her as well?”

“No! God, no, I’d never hit M… her. She’s a doll, she’s perfect. I really should marry her- I really should- and move out of here so I’m not around him so much, but I know myself. I’d just go back. Daily.”

“Is your friend there?”

“Yeah, just in the next room. We’re flatmates.”

“You live together?”

“Yeah.”

“And he works for the police?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can I speak with him?”

“Oh, no. No. I don’t want him to know I’ve been calling someone. He’d be embarrassed.”

“I’d really like to talk to him and make sure he’s okay. You really scared me last time we spoke.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m really not… well I used to think I wasn’t an awful bloke. Look, I’m not even the violent sort he just… brings it out in me. Next thing I know he’s bent over the furniture crying because I’ve punished him. He always says the same thing afterwards, too. He says ‘Does this mean you’re staying?’ and he sounds so _hopeful._ I should leave, shouldn’t I? You’re going to tell me I should leave.”

“That would be better for both of you, and you really, _really_ need to talk to the police.”

“…”

“Sir? Are you still there.”

“I <sob> Yes.”

“Sir, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not bloody okay, I’m hurting my best friend and I don’t know how to s-stop!”

“Sir. I can tell that you really don’t want to hurt him, and that you feel really bad about this, but you really do need to speak to the police and get yourself some help. I’m sure if you turn yourself in they’ll be lenient and get you the care you need.”

“I don’t deserve him. He’s so… gods, he’s brilliant! Why am I doing this to him? Because he’s rude? Narcissistic? Cruel? I didn’t even punish him for something he said to me; he said it to someone else. He made that poor woman cry and I was so _angry_ and when I told him to stop he didn’t and… When we got home I just…”

“You hit him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he hurt?”

“He’s bruised badly, but I avoided hitting organ areas at least. I don’t want to _harm_ him; I just want him to understand that he can’t hurt other people. That’s sick, isn’t it? Stopping him from hurting people by hurting him, but it actually seems to work. For a while he’s downright decent. Our friends have all complimented me. Said I’ve _tamed_ him.”

“Your friends know about this?”

“Gods, no, they just know he’s changed since he met me.”

“Could you talk to one of your friends? One with the police? Maybe they’ll be able to help you.”

“I can’t I… shit! He’s awake. I have to go.”

“Sir, wait! I just want to see if he’s… <call disconnected> okay…”

 

CHAPTER 3

“Hello, Suicide Hotline, My name is Frank, I’m here to listen.”

“Hi, Frank, can I talk to Jenna?”

“I’m sorry, she’s on a call, but I can help you. Have you been thinking about harming yourself?”

“Gods, yes, but… look, I really need to talk to Jenna. It’s just she knows the whole backstory and… do you think she’ll be on long?”

“It’s hard to say. Why don’t you tell me your backstory? I’ve got plenty of time to listen to you.”

“No, thanks, I’ll call back later.”

“Wha- wait! <call disconnected> who calls back later on a suicide hotline?”

 

CHAPTER 4

“Hello, Suicide Hotline, My name is Susan, I’m here to listen.”

“Hi, Susan, can I talk to Jenna?”

“Is this the Doctor?”

“<snorts> I wish. I could go back in time and fix this.”

“Sorry? Go back in time?”

“Oh… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… ah… yes, I’m a doctor, she might call me that, so… Jenna?”

“Sure, hold on please.”

“Thanks.”

“Hi, doctor, is your friend okay?”

“He’s fine, actually. I’m getting control of this. I didn’t hit him with a belt this time, just my hand.”

“You… you spanked him?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking I can work this backwards, you know? Maybe work down to putting him in time out, instead.”

“You’re going to put a _grown man_ in time out? Do you think he’d even stay there?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty terrified about me leaving. He’s put up with me beating him, I think he’d stay in a corner if I put him there.”

“You sound pretty upbeat about this.”

“I’m hoping I can make this okay again. I just don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

“Have you been talking to someone?”

“Beside you? No. Like I said, my therapist is useless.”

“Well, I’d like you to-“

“<clatter> Oh! You’re awake! <call disconnected>.”

“I lost him. Was that enough time?”

“No, we didn’t get him. He must be calling you from a mobile. He was moving and the towers switched halfway through.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault, Jenna, we’ll keep searching on our end. Thank you for your help. You did the right thing when you reported this.”

 

CHAPTER 5

 Sherlock headed into Lestrade’s office and tossed himself down, avoiding wincing from the bruises littering his back. John had been getting less strict with him of late, his punishments less painful, then Sherlock had just _had_ to act up and he’d gotten the belt again. Still, he was content so long as John didn’t threaten to move out… well, threaten was an understatement. John had been packed up in boxes and had a new flat picked out by the time Sherlock realized he hadn’t just been threatening for the last two weeks.

_“You can’t leave. You’re the only person who tolerates me.”_

_“Yeah, well I’m done tolerating you, Sherlock. You ridicule me, you chase off my dates, and you’re cruel to everyone around you! Blood hell, I’m your best friend and flatmate and it took you_ weeks _to notice I was moving out! I gave you notice! Were you just not listening?!”_

 _“Well I didn’t think you were_ serious _, of course.”_

_“Oh, of course not. Bloody hell! I’ve been ignoring you for weeks!”_

_“Well that I noticed. I attributed it to me ending your relationship with Mary.”_

_“Yeah. That’s what did it.”_

_“Well, you got over all the others…”_

_“I_ love _her Sherlock! And you chased her away!” Johns eyes were filling with tears and he started stuffing the last of his things into a box._

 _“Well you can’t_ leave _, how will I pay the rent?”_

_“You have loads of money, Sherlock. From cases. It’s all in our… your… account. I took my name off it today. I didn’t take any money out first. I’ve got my own account now. You’ll have to pay your bills yourself.”_

_“I… John, wait,” Sherlock called grabbing his arm as he stood up with a box and headed for the door._

_“I don’t have time for this. I need to get the truck back tonight and Lestrade was too busy to help me.”_

_“Please don’t go. I apologize.”_

_“Not good enough.”_

_“I’ll get you Mary back.”_

_“Not possible.”_

_“What do you_ want _from me! Whatever it is, I’ll do it! I need you, John!” Sherlock snapped in frustration, “Who will take care of me if you leave? I’ll be dead within a week.”_

_“Are you threatening me?” John’s voice had dropped low and dangerous and Sherlock stepped back in alarm._

_“No… I… I just don’t want you to go.”_

_“Sherlock, the only way I would stay is if I could be_ guaranteed _your good behavior.”_

_“Very well, how?”_

_“How the hell should I know?!” John tugged out of his grip and was halfway down the stairs when Sherlock thought up a solution._

_“You can punish me when I misbehave. Classic behaviorism. Eventually my behavior will emprove. You need only dedicate yourself.”_

_“What, like take your nicotine patches away?”_

_“I was thinking more along the lines of corporal punishment, but yes.”_

_“You’re giving me permission to… What? Spank you?”_

_“Or whatever you see fit. I won’t fight you on it or sulk about it afterwards. That’s fair, isn’t it?”_

_John headed up the stairs, face still a mask of rage and tossed the box onto the floor. He paused a moment, slammed his bedroom door shut, and pulled his belt off._

_“Bend over the desk.”_

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice broke Sherlock’s reverie, “Sherlock, have you been listening? I said we have a case for you.”

“Well that _is_ why I’m here.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “It’s not _here_. It’s downstairs. Domestic violence.”

“That’s not your division.”

“No, obviously it’s not, but they’re desperate. For months now some nutter’s been calling into a suicide hotline and threatening to kill his flatmate. He keeps describing beating him. I haven’t listened to the tapes myself, but it seems he’s real torn up about it, but isn’t stopping and refuses to go to the police or get help.”

“And you can’t find him? This is hardly worthy of…”

“His friend works for the police.”

Sherlock blinked, “Sorry?”

“He says his friend works for the Yard. Says he knows us all and that we haven’t caught on.”

“ _Really_!” Sherlock replied, leaning forward with interest, “Has he mentioned me? Have _I_ met the victim?”

“Not explicitly, but you may have.”

“Fascinating! If something like that _has_ slipped by me…”

“Victim, Sherlock. There’s a _victim._ Where the hell is John?”

“Date. Tedious. I’ve promised not to interrupt them anymore.”

“He’s good with Mary again?”

“Yes, sadly. She’s terribly dull.”

“Maybe he needs that after running about with you, eh?”

“Probably,” Sherlock smirked, standing, “Which office?”

“2c.”

“Ta.”

Sherlock headed downstairs and spoke with the lead investigator, a Sgt with a weight problem, heart condition, and severe asthma induced by said weight. He was also secretly gay, but John had specified stuff like that was to be kept to Sherlock’s own self, and he was learning that even if John weren’t around he would find out about it. Apparently Donovan and her cronies reported him. He _did_ tell the man about his heart, however, but he simply stared at him in confusion. Without the rest of the disclosures it wasn’t nearly as obvious that he was brilliant and to be taken seriously.

Sherlock was led to a room with a recording device and was asked to sit while it played. Within the first second he felt his heart clench painfully.

_John._

John was clearly devastated by his training with Sherlock, but that didn’t make _sense_. The whole point was to re-train Sherlock to behave well in society. They had agreed. Sherlock had consented. He wasn’t being _abused_ , yet Sherlock couldn’t get his Hippocratic-Oath-filled-head around that! Sherlock thought fast, and by the time the last recording had played he had a response lined up.

“Obvious. It’s a _prank_.”

“A prank?”

“The man wants attention. He’s obviously enamored with this Jenna girl, and calling to catch her ear.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because abusers don’t feel _guilty_. How many have you interviewed?”

“Hundreds, and you’re right. They’re completely unashamed. They just justify it.”

“Exactly. You hear him making excuses, but not _justifying_ it.”

“What’s the difference?”

“He indicates he knows the excuses are invalid. He isn’t supporting his actions or defending them, he’s just explaining how he rationalizes his crimes at the time they occur, but that they mortify him afterwards. That isn’t the trademark of an abuser; it’s someone wanting sympathy and attention. Perhaps he fantasizes about harming someone, but he’s a coward and he’ll never carry it out. Not even if someone were willing and consenting.”

“You have no idea how much weight you’ve just taken off my shoulders!” The man sighed heavily, wheezing a bit, “Lestrade told me you’d sort it! He spoke highly of you, and of course I’ve seen the blog.”

“Which blog?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the irritation that bubbled up whenever blogs were mentioned.

“There’s more than one?”

“Yes. Which?”

“Er… John Watson’s. What’s the other one?”

“Mine,” Sherlock managed not to snap.

“Oh! I’ll have to look it up!”

“Science of Deduction. You do that. Laters!”

Sherlock hurried out and straight home. He had to talk to John. Urgently.

 

CHAPTER 6

John cried. It was awful. He blubbered all over himself and Sherlock was completely unaware of how to console someone who was crying because they felt they’d gone round the bend. He insisted that Sherlock was his victim and that they both needed to separate from each other before John did something truly horrific to him. Sherlock argued, shouted, and pleaded until John was incomprehensible with hysterics. Which was why it was nothing short of a miracle that he was able to understand the moron when he sobbed about wanting to die. Suddenly everything in Sherlock’s body went cold. If John killed himself- and really Sherlock couldn’t watch him 24/7- then he would be alone again. He couldn’t be alone again. John made him _better_. He couldn’t manage without John.

“Why don’t you call the Suicide Hotline up again?” Sherlock found himself asking. It couldn’t do much harm. They’d have told her by now that there was no case, “Just speak to someone different.”

Sadly, John simply shook his head and sobbed.

“What about your therapist. Perhaps medication could help?”

John paused, thought on that, sniffled miserably, accepted yet _another_ tissue from Sherlock, and nodded his head.

“I c-can’t t-tell h-her…”

“Why you’re depressed. I’m aware of that, but you can tell her you’re suicidal. She’ll medicate you. Quickly.”

John nodded but Sherlock could still see desperation in his eyes.

“Better yet,” Sherlock decided, “Let’s go to the hospital. The A&E can give you something tonight and you can follow up with your therapist Monday.”

Which found them at the A&E who wanted to check John in and put him on suicide watch. Sherlock hadn’t counted on that. Evidently John _had_ \- the bastard- and was completely fine with staying for _days_ on end. Days where Sherlock was going to _need_ him! Thankfully Mycroft showed up uninvited- but not unwanted- to throw his weight around and in under an hour they were on their way out the door and into Mycroft’s stylish car.

“I’m not pleased, John,” Mycroft scolded, and John’s face paled considerably, “When my sources showed you and Sherlock entering A&E I thought my brother was in some sort of _danger_. Here I find you threatening suicide and demanding pills!”

“Shut up, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped, “John is in real pain!”

Mycroft looked suitably shocked, which was a unique and wholly rewarding expression on his face.

“You can’t be serious? I assumed the pills were for a case,” Mycroft scoffed.

“No, ‘fraid not,” John sighed, looking out the window.

“Then perhaps we should turn around and…” Mycroft started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No. Absolutely not. I need John _at Baker Street,”_ Sherlock insisted.

“He’d do you little good dead, unless you intended to use him for some of your experiments,” Mycroft stated heartlessly.

John _laughed_ at that.

“That isn’t _funny!_ ” Sherlock snapped at them both.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John replied, giving his hand a squeeze, “I promise I’ll come to you if I start thinking like that again, okay?”

Sherlock nodded his approval and gave John’s hand a squeeze back. The man pulled his hand free and they completed the ride in silence.

XXXXXXXXXX

John sat down opposite Lestrade and nodded to the waitress to bring him some of what Lestrade had. The man grinned at him amicably.

“You lost some weight.”

“Sick for a week. That’ll happen.”

“Damn, I didn’t know the flu was going around again.”

“Not the flu,” John sighed, “I started a new medication. The stuff knocked me on my ass for a week. Could barely leave the bathroom.”

“Damn… what do you need medicine for? You okay?”

“I am now, or at least I feel better than I did. I was having some serious depression and anxiety.”

“Oh, so… that kind of medicine.”

“Yeah, that kind,” John replied, looking away awkwardly. The waitress saved him by zipping in with his drink and a flirty smile, “Sherlock kept me from doing something stupid.”

“Sherlock… what kind of stupid?” Lestrade asked in alarm.

“The kind that ends up in the morgue,” John sighed, sitting back and rubbing his hands over his face.

“Shit,” Lestrade stated, giving him a horrified look, “John, if it’s that bad move out!”

“I can’t, he needs me.”

“Fuck he does! Look, Sherlock took care of himself before you he can do it again! The man’s impossible to spend five minutes with; you’ve spent five _years_ with him! No one would blame you!”

“Technically only two of those were in his company, since he was – you know- pretending to be dead for three of them.”

“Yeah, and you nearly offed yourself then, too! Does he know?”

“Yes. We discussed it. I still call Jenna sometimes.”

“Jenna?”

“The girl from the Suicide Hotline. She talked me down a few years ago.”

“Jenna…” Lestrade said, his eyes glazing over a bit as though he were trying to remember something.

“Yeah, I don’t know the rest of her name.”

“Huh,” Lestrade gave himself a shake, “So what about you and Mary? Can’t you move in with her?”

“I suppose, but I really can’t…”

“Fuck Sherlock Holmes!” Lestrade yelled suddenly, drawing eyes to him, “I don’t want to fucking bury you!”

“You’d be burying him!” John yelled back, “Again!”

The waitress motioned to another waitress to fetch someone from the back.

“Has he threatened to kill himself? Is that it? Because I can tell you right now, Sherlock Holmes would never kill himself. Oh, I wouldn’t be shocked to see him standing over _your_ corpse, or mine for that matter, but he’d never kill himself!”

“You don’t know him like I do!”

“Gentlemen,” A large man in a dirty apron glowered down at them, “You need to take this outside?”

“Nah,” Lestrade huffed, slouching in his seat.

“Sorry, mate, we’ll keep it down,” John replied.

“You see you do or I’ll call the coppers.”

“Already one here,” Lestrade snorted, flashing his warrant card.

The man gave them a grimace and stomped off.

John sighed and Lestrade sulked a moment.

“Do you love him, John?” Lestrade asked out of nowhere.

“Fucking hell,” John sighed, “I’ve told you a million times it’s not like that. I’m not gay, Greg. I’m with Mary, remember? Sherlock got her back for me.”

“And isn’t that a twisted bit of fucked up, but I asked you if you _love_ him, not if you’re sleeping with him. You can be straight and still love another man. Shit, I love you, you know?”

“Well, I’m officially not homophobic,” John laughed.

“Why’s that?” Lestrade smirked.

“Because this conversation doesn’t bother me.”

“Nah, you live with Sherlock, most of your conversations involve dead bodies and the weird things done to them. Gotta be a hell of a lot weirder than ‘I love you, mate’ to weird you out.”

John chuckled, and then spent a moment studying the contents of his glass.

“Yes,” John sighed.

“Hm?”

“Yes, I love him.”

“You love Mary?”

“Yes, but not the same way.”

“How so?”

“I’d die or kill for Sherlock. Mary… I stood up to Sherlock for her. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Stood up to him? When?”

“A few months back when he broke us up.”

“You never did explain what happened.”

“Well… fuck, I’ve just told you I love him, might as well spill it all. He cornered Mary and told her that the only thing she was capable of providing me with was sex; that Sherlock supplied every other need I had and I would choose him over her no matter what the circumstances. Then he called her vagina a glorified reusable spunk-tissue and threw her out of the flat.”

“What… what the hell did she do or say to set him off like that? Or was it even anything?”

“You know how bad he was getting after he ‘came back from the dead’. It’s like he was making up for all the times he missed humiliating people while he was gone for three years. Finding me in a long-term relationship just threw him farther over the edge. He freaked out about it, said he thought I’d be more faithful.”

“Does _he_ know you’re straight?”

“Yes. Sherlock doesn’t want sex. He’s made that totally clear, he considers the entire thing a waist of time. Says he doesn’t even wank.”

“You’re a doctor, is that normal?”

“It’s not _ab_ normal, there are people with naturally low or non-existant sex drives, and he did drugs for a time. That can have an effect. Anyway, the day he blew up at her was when she commented that I was buying _his_ brand of tea instead of _hers_ , and she offered to start bringing bags for herself. He lost his shit at her and I found a new flat the next day.”

“You… sorry, run that past me again?”

“I tried to move out. I had everything packed. I called you to help, remember?”

“I thought you just wanted some furniture moved!”

“Nope.”

“What happened?”

“He…” John flushed and looked down, “We fought. Hardcore fought. I… shit, Greg, I did and said some things I don’t know how to deal with.”

“You hit him?”

“Yeah.”

“Congrats, you just lived out the fantasy of every person in New Scotland Yard!” Lestrade laughed, but John wasn’t laughing with him, “Come on, John. He’s fine, you’re fine, your friendship is fine.”

“Is it?” John asked looking up, “It hasn’t been the same since. He’s respectful to me, Mary, everyone most of the time, but he’s not _him_ anymore. I feel like I broke him.”

“Maybe he needed a bit of… remolding.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m the one who does. I… I never thought I was capable of hurting someone like that, Greg. I really didn’t.”

“So he rubbed off on you. Must have been good for him to take a dose of his own medicine, he’s been downright _tolerable_ lately.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone tells me,” John sighed.

Lestrade’s eyebrows furrowed again and he looked as though he were trying to recall something.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“I just… Something tickling my brain. You know that feeling you get when something’s staring you in the face, but you don’t know what it is?”

“Yeah, constantly. Usually right before Sherlock tells me what it is I’m seeing,” John laughed.

Lestrade barked out a laugh and ordered another round. He’d forgotten the odd feeling he had by the time he went home.

 

CHAPTER 7

Lestrade was called down to the conference room for their weekly meeting. It was dull and he fought to keep his eyes open until someone brought up the case with the Suicide Hotline girl and everything went to piss.

“Listen guys, we have reason to believe that one of our own is being abused. We don’t know who it is, but it’s apparently getting worse. Now, Sgt Batistini dismissed the case as a prank after consulting with Sherlock Holmes, but that was a while ago and now another call came through. What we want you to do is listen to this tape and speak up if you recognize the voice on the line. It’s a bit garbled, so we’ll play the older tapes, too. If you don’t recognize it, we’re going to play it for everyone and try to figure out who this bastard is. If you _do_ recognize the voice, come to me privately. We all know that men get abused as often as women do, but that doesn’t take the shame that the victims feel away. If any of you are in an abusive relationship, come and see me. I’m not going to judge. Joe, play the tape.”

The second Lestrade heard the voice his blood ran cold.

_“Suicide Hotline, this is Andrew, I’m here to listen.”_

_“Oh, gods, I… I need to talk to Jenna.”_

_“Are you that Doctor guy?”_

_“Y-yes.”_

_“She don’t wanna talk to you no more.”_

_“PLEASE DON’T HANG UP! PLEASE! Oh, gods, I can’t… I can’t… If I kill myself he’ll do it too, but I almost killed him this time!”_

_“If this is a prank…”_

_“I choked him.”_

_“You choked him?”_

_“I didn’t mean to. He promised. We had a deal. I punish him when he misbehaves and he’ll let me do it, but this time he fought me and… I meant to put the belt around his arms to pin his wrists, but he was fighting me and I fell on top of him. The belt ended up around his neck and I just pulled…”_

_“Did you call an ambulance?”_

_“No, I treated him myself.”_

_“Mister, he needs to go to the hospital!”_

_“I can’t! They’ll arrest me and he won’t make it without me! He said he’ll start using again!”_

_“What do you want us to do about it? We’re not abuse counselors. You need to see a psychiatrist or_ something _. You’re messed up!”_

_“I did. They gave me medicine; it’s not FUCKING WORKING! I… GET BACK IN YOUR ROOM! NOW! GET THE FUCK BACK IN YOUR… <call disconnected>.”_

Lestrade could actually feel the blood drain out of his face. He felt sick. Not John. Jesus Christ, that couldn’t possibly be John. Could it? The person on the phone was sobbing, nearly incoherent. It might not be him but… Jenna? Medicine? Claiming he couldn’t leave the person he was abusing? It all added up, but what it added up to was horrifying.

Then they played the older tapes, and Lestrade was grateful he was sitting down, because his legs would have buckled. Of all the people in Baker Street to be a serial nutcase, John wasn’t even on Lestrade’s list. Everyone took flashdrives with the recordings on them and left the room except Lestrade, who sat back rubbing his face. The director sat down beside him.

“You got something to say, Greg?” He asked, his voice full of concern.

“It’s John. The voice on the phone is John Watson. The victim is Sherlock Holmes. Jesus Christ. He was trying to tell me. He _did_ tell me. I just wasn’t fucking listening.”

“We’ll need to bring him in.”

“I’ll get him.”

“You’ll stay out of it. I’m sorry, Greg, but he’s your friend. You’re in too deep.”

Lestrade nodded acceptance, “Can I at least be there when Sherlock’s brought in? He should have a friend around, and John’s his only one besides me.”

“Some friend,” The director snorted, but gave his permission.

The second Greg was alone he took a chance and texted John.

**Case in Regents Park. Meet me SE corner. Could be dangerous. –SH**

He hoped they weren’t together and that signing Sherlock’s name would bring John running.

**Sherlock’s here with me. What are you on about? –JW**

**Shit. Run. Get out. Now. Leave Sherlock behind. Someone’s after you and he’ll get hurt if you’re near him. –GL**

It was 20 mins before he got a reply.

**I’m at Regents, where are you? –JW**

**Armed? –GL**

**Where are you? –JW**

**Are you armed, John? –GL**

His phone rang. Lestrade could see them bringing Sherlock through the doors. He looked angry. He answered his phone anyway.

“I don’t know why you did it. Well, I do, but I don’t want the details and I really can’t fucking understand it, but they’re going to lock you up for a very, very long time if you do something stupid now. Go to Mycroft, and the story you tell him better be fucking good because he’s going to hear one from me, too. I’m going to talk to Sherlock and try to get you some kind of leniency.”

“I’m sorry,” John replied, “You have no idea how sorry I am.”

The call dropped and Lestrade got up from his desk and hurried into the interview room they’d taken Sherlock into.

“What is going on?” Sherlock snapped, “They tell me they want to talk to me about a case, but everyone is giving me stupid sappy looks! Where the hell is John? Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine, I just spoke to him. He’s coming in shortly,” Lestrade consoled.

“He wasn’t there when we went to get him,” Sgt Batistini informed.

“He’s at Regents Park. SE side. Hopefully unarmed, but be careful, yeah?” Lestrade informed. The sergeant headed out, leaving Sherlock in Lestrade’s care, but the man was hardly going to stay put.

“What the _hell_ is going on?!” Sherlock demanded, launching to his feet.

“Take off your scarf and tell us,” Lestrade quietly requested, stepping in front of Sherlock as he made to follow the sergeant.

“I. Am. Clean!” Sherlock snapped, watching the door shut behind Batistini, “And John doesn’t use.”

“Not what I’m worried about. Seriously, Sherlock. Your scarf. Lose it,” Lestrade insisted, still keeping his voice gentle.

Comprehension dawned and Sherlock nodded and sat down slowly.

“John called Jenna again. Stupid. He was supposed to come to me next time he was feeling that way.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“I already have one, thanks,” Sherlock replied acerbically.

“He choked you.”

“I fought him. I deserved it.”

“That’s what they all say, Sherlock,” Lestrade comforted gently.

“Really? Because that isn’t what John says. John cries. Every time, Lestrade. He punishes me and then holds me and tells me it will be all right. He dries my tears, comforts me, feeds me by hand, makes me tea, and when I’m calm and relaxed he falls apart. Then I fail him. Every time. Because I have absolutely no idea how to comfort him back.”

“So he calls Jenna,” Lestrade replied.

“Our activities are _consensual_ and I will testify to that in a written statement. I asked John to punish me as an alternative to moving out of Baker Street. He agreed. He is, apparently, unable to handle the emotional repercussions of corporal punishment. I had hoped Mary would give him that comfort, but the woman is useful for one thing and one thing only,” Sherlock made a disgusted face.

“Sherlock, the law doesn’t recognize a person can consent to bodily injury. You know that.”

“I won’t press charges.”

“You won’t have to.”

“I’ll fight this.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s been fought before.”

“And lost.”

“That’s because it wasn’t fought by _me_.”

Lestrade leaned forward, covered the mic and whispered, “I told him to go to Mycroft.”

Sherlock looked horrified, “He’ll kill him.”

“If he’s as innocent as you say, he won’t.”

“Dear gods, I won’t even have a body to bury,” Sherlock had gone pale- well, paler than usual- and Lestrade straightened up in alarm, “You don’t understand. John really thinks he’s harmed me. He hasn’t. He’s made me _better_. I need him. I need _this_.”

“Sherlock, he choked you, no one needs that.”

“ _I_ do! I need him to keep me from turning into _him_.”

“How can John keep you from turning into an abuser when he is one?”

“NO! Not _John_. Moriarty! John is keeping me from turning into Moriarty!”

 

CHAPTER 8

John had dreamt about it last night. He’d actively dreamt about choking Sherlock again, and it had terrified him. The first time had been bad enough, though the man had gone so far as to _thank_ him after the fact! John’s hand was shaking the next morning at breakfast and Sherlock kept glancing at him in concern, but as usual he said nothing. John wished he would. He wished Sherlock would rant and rave and throw him out. He wished he could leave himself, but now he was so embroiled in _whatever the hell this was_ that he didn’t think he could leave. Sherlock seemed as hooked on John’s abuse as he was on cases and chemistry.

“I haven’t felt any pain. You asked me to tell you if I felt pain swallowing. I haven’t.”

“That’s good, thank you for telling me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. He liked John to thank him. He liked John to compliment him, covet him, guard him, police him, and (he claimed) punish him. John did all of that and slowly wished himself dead. It was _wrong_. It was _illegal_. It was _despicable_. He worried, sometimes, that Mary would show up and see him mid-punishment. He’d joked with her about putting Sherlock over his knee and spanking him and she’d laughed about it, but that had been the end. She hadn’t thought him serious, just like Lestrade hadn’t thought he’d been talking about more than a row.

“I woke up contrary again. I was thinking about shooting up.”

John felt that usual clench of fear in his stomach, that he’d loose this brilliant man again and his life would once more be meaningless and empty.

“Do you need to talk to someone? Lestrade maybe?” John asked. That had helped once. He’d ordered Sherlock to call Lestrade and the man had ranted at him and then drowned him in cold cases until Sherlock had been calm again.

“Actually, I was thinking a spanking would calm me sufficiently. Or maybe just a time out.”

“Okay,” John replied, feeling the usual terrifying calm creep over him, “Let’s go with a time out and we’ll escalate from there as needed. Go to your corner.”

John watched Sherlock go and tried to feel disgusted by the sense of satisfaction that seeing that proud, strong, brilliant man obey him should have garnered. It didn’t happen. Instead he watched him through his entire punishment- a minute for each year of age- though he kept his head in the paper so it looked as though he weren’t paying attention.

“Okay, you can come out now. How do you feel?”

Sherlock got up from where he’d been standing with his arms held over his head and rotated them with a grimace.

“Sore, but better. Thank you.”

John motioned Sherlock over. He always felt affectionate after punishing Sherlock. At first he’d been horrified by his need to _hold_ another man, but he’d long since dismissed it. They’d been at this for too long for him to question it now. Sherlock sat down on the arm of the chair and then slid into John’s lap. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and held him gently. Sherlock’s cheek rested on the top of John’s head. They stayed like that a bit, discussing the paper and potential cases. Sherlock was calm after a punishment, his mania gone and his demeanor that of a cat having lounged in the sun for a while. He practically purred.

A few hours later he received a strange text, and then an even stranger call from Lestrade. Horrified John grabbed his coat, told Sherlock he had to pick up Harry from the train station and had forgotten, and bolted despite his shouted questions. He had barely made it to the park when Mycroft picked him up… personally. He didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t know what this was about.

“I’d like to be cremated, and I’d like my ashes sent to my sister. I think you have her address?” John requested in all seriousness.

“Oh, dear John,” Mycroft smiled coldly, “There won’t _be_ a body left to cremate.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“Did you get all that, My?” Lestrade asked, and watched Sherlock’s eyes widen in horror.

“Crystal clear, Detective Inspector, your new phone is quite lovely,” Mycroft’s voice stated from Lestrade’s front pocket.

“What now? I’ve got Dimmock manning the area outside here, I’m assuming nothing’s gone wrong since no one’s burst in and demanded to know what’s going on.”

“Can you get Sherlock out, or must I send someone for him.”

“Depends on how willing he is to go. I _still_ haven’t gotten a look at his throat.”

“I’m certain the doctor wouldn’t have kept him from hospital if it were a serious health risk. That being said, their relationship is unhealthy at best and-“

“You don’t know anything!” Sherlock shouted, and started pacing the room in frustration.

John’s voice came through the phone, clear with warning: “Sherlock, they’re trying to help.”

Sherlock’s step faltered as though someone had shoved him, he gave Lestrade’s pocket a wild look, and then resumed his pacing with a calmer air. After a moment Sherlock tugged off the scarf and his coat and threw them angrily onto the floor.

“His throat’s clear of marks,” Lestrade stated.

“That is in not in keeping with what John has told me,” Mycroft stated, “It’s more likely that he’s covered them with makeup.”

“No _makeup_ , the marks are simply small,” Sherlock turned to illustrate this and Lestrade described what he saw.

“Three pressure pinch marks. Looks like he choked him three times, loosened the belt each time, and it caught the skin each time he tightened it.”

“He never pulled it tight enough to bruise, he counted out how long he kept my air back. He was completely calm and collected. John makes excuses for his behavior after the fact. He claims he did things in a fit of rage, but he was actually completely under control; that scares him more than the idea of loosing his temper,” Sherlock explained, “It also scares him that he goes into his ‘military persona’ around me. He’s terrified that he’s going to kill me because when he had to kill in Afghanistan that was how he did so. He would never _actually_ harm me.”

“Then John is exaggerating his harm of you?” Mycroft questioned.

“ _Yes_!” Sherlock hissed, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“Sherlock, I choked you!” John broke in, his voice catching tearfully, “I could have killed you!”

“You never came close! My vision barely blurred, John, but I will tell you what _did_ happen,” Sherlock dropped down into a chair and Lestrade’s eyes widened at the vulnerable look on his face, “I calmed down, my mind stilled, and your presence brought me back to feeling… human again. Your comfort and care after gave me what I lacked as a child. I _need_ you, John. More than breathing.”

“You have no idea how scary that is for me, Sherlock,” John all but whispered.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft broke in, “John is alive now only because he showed remorse and that was enough to peak my interest and cause me to question you first. If you wish him to remain that way, you will have to follow _my_ rules.”

“I can _and will_ shoot up the second your eyes are off of me if you harm one hair on John’s head.”

“I will not tolerate your threats. They don’t scare me as they do the doctor,” Mycroft informed, “I long ago reconciled myself to finding you dead in a gutter. Your life is your own to throw away, but if you give me a chance I can make it better for you; and perhaps save your doctor from killing himself.”

“How?” Sherlock asked.

“While it’s true that BDSM is quite illegal in Britain, that doesn’t stop there from being an underground scene. I have a few contacts, mostly for other reasons, but I can find you both someone to train you. They can help John around his horror and guilt, and teach you when to tap out if things become too dangerous. Perhaps they can even tame you a bit more.”

 

CHAPTER 9

Sherlock was shaking by the time he reached John. John’s psychosomatic tremor and limp were back in full and when he stood up to greet Sherlock he nearly toppled over after two steps. Sherlock crossed the gap between them and pulled John into a tight embrace.

“Did he hurt you?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“No. You’re shaking,” John replied squeezing him gently.

“I’m _upset_. Why did you call Jenna again instead of coming to me like we’d agreed?”

“You just don’t _get it_ , Sherlock. I could have killed you.”

“You’re the one being obtuse, I was _fine_. You were perfectly under control and I felt no fear for my life at all.”

John pulled away, “That’s what scares me, Sherlock. You _have_ no fear for your life.”

“Which is why I need _you_ to worry about me. You have no idea what seeing Moriarty shoot himself did to me, John. He killed himself just because he felt it was a good next move. He sacrificed his queen for the game. I could do that, John. I’m capable of that kind of cold reasoning _except when I’m with you_. You make me human,” Sherlock smiled and brushed his hair back fondly.

John sighed and let his forehead fall onto Sherlock’s shoulder in defeat.

“You really think you can make this work?” Lestrade asked Mycroft.

“I’m as unhappy with this as you are,” Mycroft replied, “But we’ve all noted Sherlock’s improved behavior and his threat is not an empty one. It’s a miracle he’s stayed off drugs this long with that impossible personality of his. John is the only person who can tolerate Sherlock. It is essential that their friendship- or whatever this is- remains intact.”

“Okay, so we get them some kinky help,” Lestrade sighed, “Your man cleared stuff up with the Yard. As far as they’re aware we brought Sherlock in for an analysis of the tape and he declared it a stalker impersonating John. I’ve got him listed as going into protective custody to keep him away from the stalker since the man threatened to kill him.”

“I’d like you to show John off around the Yard just to let them know that he’s innocent,” Mycroft stated.

“Is he?” Lestrade asked with a lowered voice, but John still heard and looked up guiltily.

“I’d like to examine my brother’s back to make that determination,” Mycroft replied.

“Piss off!” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock!” John barked.

Sherlock winced and started tugging off his tie, the remainder of his topwear followed and he was soon bare from the waist up.

“There, see? Nothing interesting… unless either of you has a secret back fetish I’m unaware of.”

“There are some scars,” Mycroft noted, stepping closer and examining him.

“I scar easily, you know that.”

“I’ve been treating them with a lotion he made,” John added, “I put it on him twice a day. They’re fading a bit.”

“None of the wounds appear to be near his kidneys or other organs,” Mycroft observed as he circled Sherlock’s torso “Is there anything beneath your waist?”

“He only takes down my trousers to spank me, so no,” Sherlock replied sulkily, “John _never_ hits my kidneys or stomach. He’s very careful.”

“I’ve never hit them _yet_ , Sherlock,” John sighed, “What happens when I lose control?”

“What indeed,” Mycroft wondered, but Sherlock only sighed in exasperation.

 

A/N I totally should have written this so that you didn’t know if it was really John or a stalker calling in at first. L Oh well.

 

CHAPTER 10

“That’s perfect,” Mistress Katya stated softly, and John felt a swell of pride instead of a downward spiral of guilt and horror, “Look at his face. See how relaxed he is? You gave him that peace.”

John sat back on his heals and admired the pattern of bruising across Sherlock’s torso and the backs of his thighs. He was down to nothing but pants and socks, his hair damp with sweat and his arms shaking to hold him up as he knelt- handcuffed because he’d resisted- in front of the couch. They kept things out of the bedroom out of John and Sherlock’s express desire not to make this into something sexual, but that didn’t stop Mistress Katya from flushing with desire every time she saw them have a scene together.

Mistress Katya was a sadomasochist from Russia who had immigrated to Great Britain for her work. Instead of a leather and corset wearing Dominatrix in stiletto heals, she was a pencil skirt and blouse wearing geek with big glasses and kitten heels. She was a respected scientist in the field of paleontology who had written three different highly accredited papers on things that completely confused John. She loved Doctor Who and anime in ways that made her eyes go starry. Sherlock was trying to get them to date because apparently a ‘semi-intelligent woman with an understanding of your urges is going to be less complicated than a stupid tart with bigger tits’. John had spanked him over his clothes for his impudence then gone to his room to wank to the idea of himself and Katya. She was, however, far too intimidating for him. Sherlock assured him that it was because he’d only seen her Sadistic side. He’d brought it up again that morning over breakfast and it had resulted in a rather alarming fight.

_“Really, John,” Sherlock had whispered that morning, “Just ask her to do a scene with you. I’m sure her masochistic nature will be appealing to you.”_

_“Aren’t you the tiniest bit afraid that I’ll ditch you for her? I mean, she’s got the right bits for me and all,” John had teased._

Sherlock hadn’t taken it well and had gone into a full out strop, trying to throw an amused and utterly undaunted Mistress Katya out of the flat by accusing her of attempting to seduce John… which was how they’d ended up with Sherlock on his knees in front of the couch, bound, stripped, and covered in a nice array of fresh welts and bruises.

“The crop is so much easier to control than a belt,” John grinned happily, “I don’t feel like I’m putting him at as much risk, though I think I’d like to use a belt on him again eventually. Er… I feel like I’m done, do I just stop?”

“Communication, John. Ask him if he needs more, then the aftercare if he does not.”

“Oh, right. Sherlock,” John leaned forward and petted the dazed man’s curls aside, stroking his cheek gently with one finger, “Sherlock, do you need more? Or are you calm?”

“Good. S’good,” Sherlock replied, and went limp so suddenly John almost didn’t catch him before he rolled onto the floor.

John looked Sherlock over, his doctor side emerging at once, but he hadn’t fainted, simply gone boneless in surrender to John’s usual aftercare. Mistress Katya was kind enough to get a damp flannel for John, and he cleaned the man up, wrapped him in blankets, and helped him sip from a bottle of water, all while holding him gently.

“We need to work on your scene preparation,” Mistress Katya informed as they all sat down to tea, “I realize that Sherlock mostly uses you for punishments, and that he sometimes fights them first, but there should be no need to begin this without the aids near you for aftercare. I won’t always be here and he may not be in a state that you can walk away from. I want you to construct two aftercare kits. One large one you keep somewhere in your flat- preferably the sitting room- and one small one that can be mobile for your frequent travels. The one in your flat you might even keep toys in- such as Sherlock’s crop- so visitors aren’t too nosy about why it is lying about, but you still have it at hand when needed.”

John snorted, “There’s enough odds and ends in here I think we can keep the toys about with no difficulty.”

Sherlock hummed softly, his head pillowed on John’s shoulder. His eyelids were drooping and John excused them to drag the stubborn detective off to bed.

“It’s the middle of the day,” Sherlock whined.

“You’re tired. You never sleep. You’ll do so now.”

“You’re getting pushy,” Sherlock groaned as he sank into bed and leaned heavily on his freshly damaged back.

“You like it, you git,” John chuckled, “Love you, you know.”

“Mmm, love you, too,” Then in a pleading voice, “Keep me sane.”

“I’m trying. I have to keep myself sane first, or I’ll be of no use to you. We’ll work on some harsher implements soon, like the cane and withholding air. Will you be able to handle that?”

“Need you,” Sherlock muttered, starting to drift off.

John tucked him in and stroked his unruly locks a moment, “Need you, too.”

John returned to the sitting room and offered Katya another biscuit; she declined but smirked at him knowingly.

“Sherlock assumes I am to become your lover?” She stated in that straightforward way of hers.

“He’s such a bloody idiot sometimes,” John sighed, “He’s the one who started trying to get me to ask you out in the first place, then he got jealous when I joked about leaving him for you. I didn’t mean to set him off. I’m sorry he said those things to you.”

Mistress Katya nodded, “You have to be mindful of his feelings. They are very suppressed, so when they come bubbling to the surface they are violent. You are more important to him than anything else, so he is going to be very clingy where you are concerned. You will have to tread every relationship you have with infinite care.”

John sighed, “So this is one of those incidents we discussed where Sherlock really shouldn’t have been punished? I was at fault for provoking him.”

“No, no, no, no. Sherlock’s _behavior_ was still out of line, and he needs you to control him. That is your relationship. You, however, need to control yourself as well; such is the burden of the Dominant partner. There is a time and place to tease him. You have told me you are completely committed to him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then he must never be made to question that.”

“I’m not sure… what exactly should I do now?”

“What everyone must do at some point in every relationship: apologize to him.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and watched him sleep for a while. It was odd, their relationship. He had spent the last several months hating himself for what he’d been doing to Sherlock, the three years before that hating Sherlock for ‘dying’ on him, the eighteen months before Sherlock’s fall in a state of unimaginable euphoria, and the many decades before that drifting around searching… evidently for Sherlock. They were trying to get their euphoria back, but their dynamic had changed drastically. John had a lot of anger towards Sherlock for leaving him to suffer alone for three years; Sherlock had a highly repressed emotional state that made him volatile and needy in turns. They hadn’t been on a case together since Lestrade had pulled Sherlock out of his flat and questioned him, which was over two weeks ago. Sherlock wasn’t bored. Sherlock was as obsessed with John as John was with him, and that still completely blew his mind. They studied their new lifestyle together with the intensity of two students studying for final exams.

John and Sherlock would be taking on cases once more as soon as Mistress Katya cleared them to go out in public again. There would always be those at the Yard that wondered, of course, and they would probably gossip and wonder even more because they behaved so differently now. When John snapped out Sherlock’s name, his head instinctively dipped, his eyes dropped, and his voice softened. It was like a drug to John whenever that happened.

Of course, then there were the times where he fought John tooth and nail, screaming abuse and physically trying to fight him off rather than accept a punishment after he had misbehaved. Those had been the worse moments for John in the past; the times when he would call Jenna afterwards and sob into the phone that he was out of control because it no longer felt as though Sherlock were consenting. Now he understood that it was _Sherlock_ who was out of control; that he fought back only meant that he needed John to take him down faster and harder. So John pinned him down and took him apart and Sherlock came up mewling like a kitten, soft and cuddly and utterly content to spend the remainder of his years beneath John’s thumb. If he ever _really_ wanted or needed it to stop, they now had a safety word in place; Vatican Cameos meant John was to stop everything and anything that was going on and, if Sherlock allowed it, comfort and hold him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” John stated the moment the man’s eyes fluttered open, “I’m never going to get bored, get too interested in someone else, get too frustrated, or just plain move on. It isn’t going to happen. Death might separate us temporarily someday, but it won’t be because I allowed it to.”

“You can’t promise that,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes again with a pained look on his face.

“I just have.”


End file.
